


Looking-Glass

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Harry Potter (SORT OF), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Magic, ON-GOING SHENANIGANS, THIS IS A MAGICAL AU, and biting, and some potter, and some stormy nights, and who knows, cat!lock, were!strade, werewolves a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a dark and stormy plot that interrupted the flow of time and ruined several characters' lives. Or it would, if those events had happened yet. Luckily for everyone involved, time is not linear and magic is complicated. Yarr, here there be monsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Sometimes Greg’s back hurt, Iain knew. Sometimes his knees would ache, because the idiot was almost fifty and didn’t think that his age should have any bearing on his ability to knock down young jocks on the football field. But he didn’t have an angry stomach that kept him up at night, and as far as Iain was concerned — Greg’s problems could stuff it. 

The gorgeous bastard was fast asleep anyway.

He, meanwhile, perched on the edge of the sofa with his head in one hand, and his free arm wrapped around his waist. It didn’t help. It was just vaguely comforting. Better by far than the handful of antacids that hadn’t done anything.

Neither had toast.

Or milk.

At that point, he wasn’t sure what Plan D was, but knocking himself unconscious was beginning to look like a nice option. Maybe he’d just wake Greg up and make him do it. 

Hey — get out of bed. I need you to take this table leg and smack me in the head, all right?

Yeah, that’d go over well. But Greg wouldn’t do it. He’d just coddle him, and try to be reassuring — for a whole five minutes, until he fell asleep again.

Iain sighed. He couldn’t hold that against him. Greg was a light sleeper, and had lost a lot of irreplaceable hours working for the Yard. Begrudging him his ability to fall asleep quickly wasn’t fair.

He just wished— …well. He wished he was back in bed, where it was warm. He wished he could curl up in those surprisingly strong arms and not be bothered with this hellish fire keeping him upright. 

He rubbed his palm across his eyes. 

There was a Plan Z — not to be confused with Dan’s Plan Zs, which were always awkwardly detailed survival guides in the event of a zombie apocalypse. His Plan Z was significantly less complicated, but so-named for its ludicrous nature.

It was something of a homoeopathic remedy his mother had taught him when he’d first started having these problems. But the preparation alone was going to be noisy. He’d need a big bowl, a knife and a few things he knew he wasn’t going find in Greg’s kitchen.

Shredded flitterbloom. Horklump juice. A bit of shrivelfig, of course — and some peppermint to taste.

Not to mention a sleeping spell to keep his dozing companion from wandering into the kitchen while he was in the middle of brewing a simple potion. 

It was far too much effort for one evening.

He’d tell Greg about the magic one day. But not tonight.


	2. Discovery

“I like Merlin.” 

Iain dragged his eyes away from the telly to look at Greg. “Excuse me?” Somehow he doubted Merlin had anything to do with Top Gear.

“Y’know, Merlin. The bloke with the floppy hat and the big grey cloak.” 

Iain tilted his head to the side slightly. “Greg, you’re thinking of Gandalf.”

The older DI snorted and reached out, pulling Iain closer to him. Iain was already sprawled out across him, legs draped comfortably over Greg’s. Any nearer and he might as well be sitting in his bloody lap. ”I know who Gandalf is,” he retorted. “No, I mean Merlin. The one who ran around with King Arthur.”

“What does this have to do with cars?” 

“Why does everything have to be about cars?”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t have anything to do with football.”

“Rubbish. I bet Merlin was great at football.”

“Greg.”

“And he drove a vintage Rolls Royce.” 

Iain’s face lit up. “What?” 

Greg clicked his tongue. “Ah, you’re right. Probably had a broom or some rubbish like that.” 

“Brooms are not rubbish.” 

“No?” Greg was looking him in the eye. “What’re they like?” 

Iain’s smile faltered. “Fiction, for starters.” 

Greg’s expression didn’t change. Iain couldn’t look away from those handsome, chocolate eyes. They were begging him to tell the truth — but he couldn’t.

“Huh… there’s one in the corner there that might disagree.” Greg nodded at the open closet in the hall. 

“I mean the flying kind that Merlin would’ve had.” 

“So they can fly?”

“I don’t know. Ask Merlin.” 

“I’ve tried. He won’t answer my calls.” 

Iain chuckled. 

“But they can fly, yeah? I mean, all those myths about witches and the like. Had to come from somewhere.” 

Iain had no idea what Greg was playing at. It seemed like Greg knew, but there was no way to tell — and he wasn’t sure, even now, if he was ready to divulge the whole truth. 

“Do you believe in magic?” He asked quietly, trying not to sound too concerned.

The grey-haired detective inspector smiled. 

“Greg?”

Greg reached out and playfully ruffled Iain’s hair. “‘Course I do, y’nut. I’m not a muggle.” 

Iain’s eyes widened significantly. “But…” 

“But what? You really think every magic kid in Britain goes to some posh school in the north? Please.” 

“Stop, stop, stop, stop.” It was the only word he could get out as he scrambled up off the sofa. Greg was still laughing as he walked into the kitchen. Iain didn’t think it was all that funny. 

“No,” he continued. “No, you are not— how?” 

“How what?” The older man asked, pulling a beer out of the fridge. 

Iain stopped in the doorway. He had both hands up, touching his temples, and his eyes were wide with disbelief. “There is no way we’ve been together for this long without me knowing you’re a wizard.” 

Greg flipped the bottle cap into the sink. “Yeah… that’d make you a shit detective, wouldn’t it?” 

“Greg!” Iain’s voice went up half an octave, indicating that he was indeed very distressed by this news. 

Greg relented with a soft smile. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier… but you didn’t tell me either.” 

“And how was I supposed to bring it up? Why didn’t you just bloody— when—” Iain stopped a took several rapid breaths. “How did you figure out that I was?”

At that, Greg’s expression shifted. The glee of having known that Iain was a wizard melted into something similar to sheepish reluctance. 

But Iain wanted answers. “Tell me, or I swear by Merlin’s staff, I will throttle you.” 

“Told you he was a cool guy.” 

“Greg!” 

The older detective tried not to choke on his drink, and held up his hands defensively. “All right, all right! Christ, you’re a little terror, aren’t you?” Iain was glaring so hard that Greg was afraid his kitchen might spontaneously burst into flame. “…Sherlock told me.” 

It was too much. Iain sat down in the middle of the floor with his head in his hands. “I do not understand a single thing that’s just happened,” he muttered after a long, deeply awkward silence. 

Greg, being the sympathetic man that he was, pulled away from the counter and came to sit in front of him. Only after he’d crossed his legs did he glance back at the fridge and add: “I’d offer you a drink, but…” He trailed off. Iain reached out and plucked the beer from his hand, draining it before Greg could grab it back. “All right, you little weasel,” he muttered. 

“I don’t understand,” Iain repeated.

“Well, for starters — I know that you practise magic.”

Iain stared at him.

“And that’s okay, because technically so do I.” 

“Technically?” 

“I don’t really bother with it.”

“Why not?” 

Greg shrugged. He’d always loved flying, but that was about as far as his interest in magic had stretched. He’d done the usual educational thing — gone to school and studied subjects that bored him. He’d passed a few NEWTs and gotten some OWLs, but that was all ages ago, and he hadn’t really given much thought to it since. Every once in awhile he’d pull out his wand for an easy spell — but he was happy enough with his mostly muggle lifestyle. 

Iain, on the other hand, had only recently gone “Muggle” — and only because he was living with a man that he erroneously suspected was one. He found Greg’s explanation to be ludicrous at best. 

“Sherlock, however…” 

Iain covered his face with both hands again. “Is everyone in this bloody city magic?”

“Quite a few, actually. But only three or four of us are on the force.” 

“Donovan?” 

Greg shook his head. “But she knows. Anderson is — he got something like ten NEWTs, too. Bloody lunatic.” 

It was hard to say what baffled Iain more — that so many of his close friends were fully aware of the existence of magic, or that he’d gone so bloody long without realising. “What about Sherlock?” he prompted. 

“Him, too. His brother, Mycroft, actually works at the Ministry. Not entirely sure what he does, though.” Certainly no surprises there. “Are you going to be all right?” 

Iain gave him the most dazed, lost set of puppy eyes Greg had ever seen. 

“So, no?” 

“I’m… going to lie down.” And he would have keeled over right there if Greg hadn’t grabbed him by the wrists. 

The older man chuckled quietly and stood up, pulling Iain with him. Iain didn’t bother finding his footing — Greg dipped and scooped him up and carried him — “Lazy sod.” — out of the kitchen and across the living room to their darkened bedroom. It wasn’t an easy thing, having such a large part of your life go topsy-turvy in a matter of minutes, but he knew that Iain would bounce back. 

All he needed was a long, restful nap.

Iain was unconscious before his head even hit the pillow. Greg gave it a few minutes — he’d sprawled out across their big, cosy bed — before slipping out from under Iain and moving into the sitting room. Iain might have narcoleptic superpowers — but Greg certainly didn’t, and his mind sure as hell wasn’t going to let him sleep after that big reveal. 

He had to tell someone. 

He flopped down on his couch, mobile in hand. It took him three tries and a lot of jabbing at the screen to get Sally’s number right — he’d have used the primary speed dial button, but at some point in the last month her number had been switched out for Sherlock’s, and he still hadn’t figured out how to reverse it — but eventually he heard ringing, and held the nauseating little device up to his ear. 

“Bloody cancer box,” he muttered. 

“What’s that?” asked a voice at the other end. Evidently Sally had picked up the phone while he was growling. 

“No, not— never mind. Got some news.”

“…and?”

“I told Iain.”

There was a strange noise from Sally’s end. “Told him what, Greg?”

“About magic,” the older DI explained. “Well, I didn’t tell him. He worked it out a bit.”

“A bit?” His best friend asked. “Look, sorry. This isn’t a great time. Can I call you back?”

Greg immediately grimaced. “Jesus Christ, Sally. I didn’t bloody need to know that.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I know what ‘not a great time’ means!” Greg retorted, hanging up quickly. 

Back in her flat, Sally turned her mobile off and tossed it into the clothes hamper. 

“What if there’s an emergency?” Dan asked, moving his hand back up her leg — where it had been before Greg’s badly timed call. 

Sally looked down at him. She was still straddling his hips, and she clearly intended to stay there. “Then he can bloody deal with it,” she answered testily.


	3. Scratching

“I think you’ve got mice.” 

“What’s that?” Greg looked away from the telly and tightened his arm around Iain’s waist. 

It was one of those nights — those blissful, rare nights where they were both at home, and neither of them had any work to do. They hid their mobiles, found something to watch, and let time pass them by without a word. It was dull, and perfect, and they loved it.

“There’s a scratching sound,” Iain murmured, lulled by comfortable way Greg held him.

Greg glanced at the window, and sighed. “It’s worse than mice.” He sat up, pulling his arm back so that he could push himself out of the hole their bodies had created in the couch. Iain frowned. He couldn’t vouch for better or worse than rodents — but he didn’t tend to like things that disrupted his evening.

“What is it then?” he asked as Greg unlatched the window and pushed it open.

Greg didn’t answer. He turned and jogged into the bedroom.

“Have I missed something?” Iain called after him.

He had.

A thin black cat leapt from the fire escape, through the open window, and landed soundlessly on the floor. If the couch hadn’t been sucking him in like a pit of quicksand, Iain would have jumped several feet into the air. As it was, his heart was pounding from the fright, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to get a complaint from the tenants in the next building over for excessive swearing.

“Greg!” he yelped, struggling to his feet. He didn’t like cats. He was allergic to them — and in his experience, they were fairly unimpressed by him in return.

The cat eyed him apathetically. 

Greg hurried out of their bedroom with a long, silky robe, and Iain flattened himself against the opposite wall. “What are you doing?” Iain asked, exasperated. He could feel his skin crawl just looking at the wretched thing. 

“Sorry, it’s… fuck’s sake, Sherlock. Hurry up.” 

Iain stared.

And the cat, with a devilish expression that no proper cat should have had (but somehow all did), sat up on his back paws briefly. Greg looked away, but Iain was transfixed. The cat grew — literally grew in size right before his very eyes. Its limbs stretched, and its fur receded until a tall, thin, and terribly nude young man stood in its place.

Sherlock took the robe from Greg’s outstretched hand and pulled it on. “I need your assistance,” he said brusquely.

Greg ignored him. He was watching Iain sympathetically. “It’s all right, love. I’m allergic to him, too.” 

Iain grunted. 

“He’s a shapeshifter,” Greg continued.

“I can bloody see that,” Iain answered, slowly peeling away from the wall. His heart was still hammering. Stray animals didn’t often jump into his flat, and never in his reckoning had one unexpectedly transformed into someone he knew right in front of him. He’d heard of Animagi, of course — he’d had a professor that was one, but that was a different world, and— “Wait, shapeshifter?” 

Sherlock smirked. He could sense the tension and confusion, and was very much enjoying it.

“Animagus, right?” Iain asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, joy. He went to Hogwarts.” 

“Sherlock, tie the sodding robe,” Greg growled, walking towards Iain. His expression softened as he took the younger detective inspector’s hands. “He’s… yes, essentially. He’s an Animagus. It’s a bit different,” he added, speaking over Sherlock as the dark haired man tried to interrupt. “Different kind of magic, but that’s the gist of it.” 

“Gist,” Sherlock muttered with a snort.

“Shut up. What the hell do you want anyway?” 

“Pick one,” the cat-turned-human grumbled.

“What?” 

Sherlock wrapped himself up in his robe and fell into the armchair by the window, pulling his feet up to brace them against the coffee table. “I need your assistance,” he repeated.

“Our what?” Greg asked. 

“Assistance.” 

Greg glanced at Iain, who seemed to be recovering. “What’s another word for assistance?”

“Help,” Iain murmured.

“You need our help.” Greg grinned slightly. 

Sherlock’s lip curled and his eyes narrowed. “Yes, and if I’d needed a dictionary definition, I’d have gone to Mycroft. He’s responsible for at least half of the OED.” He glanced at the television as he spoke. “I’m on a case.” 

“When aren’t you?” Iain asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer — and sat there with it hanging open as his brain registered that it might have been a rhetorical question. His bright eyes moved from the television, to the dent in the couch, to Greg’s bare chest, to Greg’s and Iain’s hands. The two Scotland Yarders watched him quizzically. It was almost as if they could see the little gears inside Sherlock’s head spinning into overdrive as he tried to piece together the scene he was observing.

And either he didn’t enjoy what he deduced, or he gave up. He looked away and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “There’s a rat,” he began. 

“So go catch it,” Greg replied.

“Are you going to assist me or not?” Sherlock demanded.”You opened the window.” 

“About that,” Iain added, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock to look at Greg. 

Greg shook his head dismissively. “You’d have crawled under the bloody door if I hadn’t.” 

Sherlock said nothing. Lestrade was not incorrect.

Iain took a deep breath before pulling away from Greg and moving back to the couch. He sat at the end closest to Sherlock — it was somewhat ironically the safest place, until the cushions in the middle re-inflated. “All right. Tell us about the rat.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched slightly, but he didn’t smile. He launched into an explanation of his case, and the details that had led him there. Iain did his best to follow the enthusiastic consulting detective’s story, and Greg — Greg didn’t bother. 

He was still standing by the bedroom door, with his head tilted ever so slightly to the side, watching them. Sherlock, being more observant than Iain, eventually stopped and stared back at him. “What is it?” he asked.

Greg covered his mouth with his hand to hide a smirk. “Nothing,” he mumbled. 

The naked-underneath-his-too-silky-to-hide-anything-robe consulting detective, and the only-in-his-pants-because-it-was-supposed-to-be-a-quiet-evening-at-home professional fixed Greg with similarly confused expressions. 

Greg licked his lips. “You were saying?”


	4. Water

“No, Sherlock. No, I don’t care. You cannot stay here.”

The messy-haired detective rolled his eyes, brushing his sopping curls out of his eyes. “I obviously can’t go outside currently.”

Greg lifted his keys from a little table by the door. “I’ll drive you. Come on.”

But Sherlock didn’t move. He’d made a familiar nest for himself out of Greg’s extra blankets on the couch, and seemed more than cosy enough. 

“Where did you even get those?”

“Hall closet. Top shelf.”

Greg groaned. Iain, calmly sipping a cup of tea, didn’t blink. 

He was disgruntled — but it wasn’t a surprise to him that Sherlock knew the layout of Greg’s flat. The man had a photographic memory, and he’d been too often in the past. It was slightly appalling how easily Sherlock had made camp in their sitting room, but Iain couldn’t stomach the thought of forcing him out into the gale brewing just outside — no matter how obnoxious he was.

“So, what? You’re going to spend the night?” Greg asked. 

“I’ll leave as soon as the storm clears.”

“And why can’t I just drive you home?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. 

Quite unfortunately, the room’s occupants were all three of them very talented detectives. Iain’s eyebrow lifted as he peered over his mug. Greg folded his arms over his chest. 

Sherlock very stubbornly looked away, snuggling down into his duvet. (It had more than enough black cat hair on it for him to claim it as his own, even though it’d never left Greg’s flat.)

“Sherlock. What are you hiding?” Greg preferred the blunt approach.

“I’d like some tea, thank you.”

“We’re not your personal caterers.”

Iain — generally quite generous to Sherlock’s intrusions — smiled and didn’t budge. The tin was running low anyway. 

Sherlock sulkily turned his back to them, drawing the blanket up to his ears. 

Greg marched over, grabbed a corner, and brusquely yanked the whole thing away from him. Iain leapt out of the way of the cloud of cat hair, praying to every magical being in creation that shapeshifters would miraculously be hypo-allergenic. Sherlock sat bolt upright, pouting like a toddler. 

“I’ll change back,” he threatened. 

“And I’ll put a bin over you until you tell me why you can’t go back to your own flat.”

The consulting detective stood up, in the middle of the couch, stepped off the armrest and sauntered towards the kitchen. Iain reached out to grab his sleeve but Greg caught him quickly. “No, no. No, you don’t want that.” 

Iain gave him a quizzical look. 

“He’ll just leave the bloody robe on the floor.”

He absolutely would have — and it wouldn’t have been the first time. Iain sighed. 

“You’re almost out of tea,” Sherlock called out. “Why is it so cold in here? There are no windows, no noticeable air vents. Unless someone’s recently been standing with the refrigerator door open because he takes forever to decide what sort of sandwich to make—”

“Bare bloody feet on tile, Sherlock,” Greg interrupted, following their resident pest into the kitchen. “Bare feet and wet hair.”

“Fetch me a towel.”

“Fetch your own sodding towel. Or better, get the hell out of my flat.”

“Our.”

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock cupped a mug between both hands, lifting it to his mouth and inhaling deeply. He’d never understood precisely how the aroma of tea could have such an impact on neural transmitters, but it was fascinatingly effective. “Not me — him. He lives here, therefore it’s ‘our’ flat.”

“That’s fair,” Iain added from the sitting room. Though the name was ironic, given the fact that he was standing — aimlessly staring at Greg’s couch and the armchair in the corner, both of which Sherlock had occupied in the last hour. 

“I will drag your sorry, wet arse home.”

“Do you have a leash?” Iain asked.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a cat.”

Iain slipped past Greg and into the kitchen, placing his empty mug in the sink. “Certainly explains the aversion to water.” 

Sherlock frowned, but the weather spoke for him. Thunder cracked, and the wind rattled the windows in their frames. The rain — heavy before — was coming down like an African monsoon. 

Iain pragmatically relented. “You can’t drive him home now, Greg.”

“But he can still bloody tell me why he didn’t want to go home.”

Iain looked at Sherlock as he leaned back against the counter. 

Sherlock ignored them, enjoying his tea as though neither of them were in the room. 

As if Greg Lestrade could be so easily impeded. He smiled. And then he looked Sherlock up and down, taking in every detail of his wet hair and the loosely tied robe — observing him, as Sherlock would any victim. Sherlock stopped sipping his tea and looked up slowly, watching him. 

“You don’t want to go back,” Greg concluded. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. 

“Judging by the way your hands are shaking, and the way you’re clutching your tea—” 

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock muttered. “You’re just trying to goad me into correcting you. You’re butchering my method on purpose.” 

“Is it working yet?”

Iain smiled appreciatively. 

“No, really — I can keep going,” Greg added. “Your feet—” 

“My feet?” 

“Well, they look like giant bloody flippers, for starters. You might’ve been better off learning to shapeshift into a duck.” 

“Or a seal,” Iain suggested.

“No, I like those.”

Sherlock clutched his mug and marched out of the kitchen, muttering quietly to himself. 

“But I was right, wasn’t I?” Greg prompted. “You don’t want to go back, and I think—” He paused to toss his keys back at the table by the door. “I wager it’s because you like it here.” 

The soggy cat-morphed-human retreated to his duvet, pulling it protectively around him as he settled back on the couch, with a little nest in his lap for his hands and his tea. (To say he was a human-turned-cat would have been grossly insulting to both humans and felines everywhere, and an obvious lie.)

“It’s warm. Comfortable. You always get a place to sleep, and sometimes you even get food. We should start stocking tins of kitty chow.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Greg chuckled. “Yeah, I thought as much.” 

“So I reckon,” Greg continued. “That your place is getting inhospitable. Probably leaky, am I right?” 

Iain stood in the doorway, watching the exchange. As a detective, he understood that there was no evidence for Greg’s allegations. The older man was working purely on instinct, and his own experiences with Sherlock. But despite having only known the consulting detective for a short amount of time, Iain noticed that Sherlock’s expressions seemed transparent. 

He didn’t want to go home at all, and he was hardly bothering to hide it.

Sherlock sipped his tea again, staring blankly at the coffee table. Iain looked at Greg, who smiled subtly. So much for their quiet night alone with the telly.


	5. Euphemism

He was a creature of habit. Of routine, and changeless comfort, and doing the same thing the same way a thousand times because it worked — because new was unnecessary.

Habit was the reason he could open his front door without touching the handle. 

Greg had his arms full when he hip-checked the door in just the right place. With a little pressure on the frame, it swung right open, and he grinned — as he always did — when he stepped inside. 

“Iain?” 

He closed the door with his foot and carried his bags of groceries into the kitchen, where Iain was cooking up something inexplicable in a large, metal pot.

Pot might not have been the right word. Small cauldron would probably have been closer to the truth. The young detective measured something slimy into a cup and slowly added it to the mix. 

“That… smells,” Greg told him, putting the bags on the floor. 

“It’ll get better.” 

“What is it?” 

“Furniture polish.” 

Greg stopped and stared at Iain. Iain — unperturbed — kept working, stirring and mixing in all manner of oddities.

“You are joking.” 

Iain rolled his eyes.

“No, come on— furniture polish is a euphemism.” 

Iain nearly knocked the cauldron into the sink as he twisted to stare at his confused, bemused partner. “It’s for my allergies,” he explained, exasperated. “Because someone keeps letting a bloody cat into the flat.” 

At that, Greg stooped and picked up a few of the groceries from the floor. He certainly wasn’t going to apologise, but he did feel a bit guilty. “I thought Sherlock wouldn’t trigger them, seeing as he’s human and all,” he answered, sliding a case of beer into the refrigerator. 

“Well, you thought wrong.” 

To be honest, it was safe to assume that if Sherlock could trigger something — he would, and they both knew it. They both silently thought it as Greg stowed away the rest of the food and perishables he’d purchased, and Iain rinsed lemon juice from his hands.

They met in the middle of the kitchen when their tasks were done. Iain’s potion bubbled pleasantly on the counter, and Greg tossed the shopping bags on the table. He could tuck those away later — when there wasn’t a handsome, wonderful man with a loving smile on his lips standing in front of him. 

“Have a nice day?” Greg murmured, brushing his thumb over Iain’s cheek. 

“It’s better now,” Iain replied.

“Why, ‘cause I’m here?”

“Mmmhm.” Iain leaned into him. 

Greg grinned and shoved him away. “Eugh, don’t be such a sap.” 

“Oi!” Iain grabbed the front of Greg’s shirt and gripped it tight. “Well. You ruined it, so.” 

“So you could let go of me,” the grey-haired man cheekily told him.

“You are— the worst person.” 

Greg put both hands squarely over Iain’s backside. “You wouldn’t like me otherwise.” 

“I don’t like you now.” 

“Liar,” Greg told him, giving him a hard smack. In the background, Iain’s potion started to hiss. “Oh, look. Dinner’s ready.” 

“Get off me, you—” Iain let go, shoving at the older man’s chest in his effort to peel away. Greg, however, had something of an iron grip on him, and wasn’t willing to budge. “You are a bloody menace.” 

“Only sometimes,” Greg murmured, brushing his lips over Iain’s neck as he struggled. Iain groaned.

“I’m going to punch you.” 

“I dare you.” 

Iain felt Greg’s teeth on his shoulder and leaned back quickly. With an indignant grunt, he slapped the older man in the face. 

Greg immediately let him go — very nearly dropping him on the floor, along with his jaw. He clapped his hand to his cheek as Iain scrambled over to the counter to extinguish the flame under his cauldron. “You—” 

“I told you I’d do it.”

Greg stared, mouth hanging open in a bewildered, awestruck grin. If Iain hadn’t had his back to him, he’d have noticed the happy, hopeless, puppyish love brimming in Greg’s sweet brown eyes. 

“I’ll get you back,” Greg threatened, shaking off his amazement to grab the abandoned shopping bags from the table. 

“I’m sure you will,” Iain mused.


	6. Contamination

“Everything all right, Jones?”

The intern leaned back against the side of his car, his arm draped over his face. He looked green, even from a distance — and if they’d had a less important case on the table that day, Greg might have sent the poor lad home before the sun had gone down. 

He should have, he realised. Mike didn’t look fit to stand — never mind drive. Greg walked over, pulling his keys out of his pocket. 

“C’mon, lad,” he coaxed, almost apologetically. “I’ll drive you home. I don’t need you causing traffic accidents.” 

Mike still hid his face as he turned, putting his back to Greg. He pressed the bare skin of his arm against the cold glass of his car window, and Greg’s eyes narrowed slightly. 

“Jones?” 

Mike groaned. “Get—” 

Greg very nearly jumped. He was certainly startled — he’d never heard Jones sound quite so strange. The younger man’s voice was deep and gravelly — more like a growl than actual human speech. It’d taken nearly forty years and a lot of chain smoking for him to achieve anything close to that, but here was this twenty something kid coming off like a bear. 

“Get?” He stepped closer. “Lad, maybe I should ferry you to St. Mary’s.” 

“Help— help me,” Mike whimpered, sinking to his knees.

Greg lunged to catch him. “Fuck! Jones! What the—”

But hell broke loose before Greg could do anything. Mike’s head snapped back — he cried out, howling in agony at the involuntary twists and sharp jerks as his body spasmed. He collapsed in a heap on the concrete floor, and his limbs stretched, forming a body that he was never meant to have. 

A very terrifying realisation clicked inside Greg’s brain.

“By Christ, you’re…” 

Jones looked up slowly — but it wasn’t him. It was a wild, primal creature crouching in his shoes and forcing its way out of his skin. 

He should have run. 

Jones — half wolf and half man and still in the middle of a painful physical transformation — leapt at him. Greg threw up his arm to shield his face, but the weight of the beast that lunged knocked him off his feet. The werewolf had him. It clenched his forearm tightly between dripping, feral jaws. Its teeth tore through his skin like paper, spattering his clothes with a grim mix of blood and contaminated saliva. 

He never stopped swearing. Not at any point as he grabbed the wolf by the ear, wrenching its head away as forcefully as he could. Not as it cried out and fled. Not as he struggled to his car with his arm in ribbons. 

Greg crawled into the driver’s seat. He locked the doors, but Jones was gone. He’d vanished around the corner of the large car park. 

He’d run. 

In the game of fight or flight, even the werewolf wasn’t so rabid that fight was its only option. 

He should have stayed. He should have dragged himself into the lift — fear or no fear — and gotten help. But he didn’t. An animal had implanted itself under his flesh, and that terrified animal ran for it. 

He forced his car into third and left it. It whined — pleaded and begged in the most pitiful way to be treated fairly, but he couldn’t work the gear and keep one hand on the wheel. His left was useless. It hung limply in his lap, steadily dripping warm blood onto his trousers and the seat beneath him. He could hardly focus on the road; he could only recklessly drive on. 

He left a hand print on the door to his flat as he kicked it open some time later. He was shaking. He felt it. He wasn’t changing as he’d expected, and he rushed to the kitchen to run ice cold water over his wound. It was a foolish hope — thinking he could wash the contagion from his veins, but he couldn’t help but try. 

He had to. And not for his sake.


	7. Grace

As a police officer, he’d been trained to handle a variety of dangerous, emotionally compromising situations. Grace under fire was an asset, and he had it.

Or, he thought he did. He couldn’t recall a bloody hand print on the door to his own home being in any of the Met’s training programmes. 

Iain — distracted and scared — shoved into the flat without warning. It went against everything — he didn’t have the advantage; he didn’t even know what the hell was going on. He was blindly rushing into a potential crisis… and he didn’t care. 

“Greg!” he shouted, even though the flat was only three rooms and a bath. 

In the kitchen, Greg hung his head. There was no hiding the truth now. Not that he ever could have. “Here,” he answered quickly. “Here.” 

Iain rushed over, face pale and hands shaking and not at all graceful — but there weren’t any assassins or hostage situations or terrorists that he could see, so he allowed himself the liberty. “What— Merlin, you’re all right.” 

Not quite, but Greg laughed all the same. “Merlin won’t be much help, I’m afraid.” 

“Why? What ha—” Iain caught sight of Greg’s mangled arm and froze. 

Greg didn’t know what to say. Iain was speechless. The younger detective stared — transfixed and horrified at the gory scene before him. He could deal with blood. He could deal with dead bodies, and bloating, and cranial gunshot wounds — but looking at Greg’s forearm, he swore he could see bone.

He swayed on the spot.

“Sit down,” Greg told him, turning off the tap but leaving his arm in the sink. He was feeling dizzy, too — probably the blood loss, he realised, because he oh so stupidly ran the open wound under water instead of applying pressure.

“Sit?” Iain repeated, astonished. “Fu— Greg, you need to go to the bloody hospital!” 

“No. No, it’ll be—” Greg’s knees gave out and he yelped as his arm hit the edge of the sink. Iain dashed forward, reaching for him, and grabbed him around the waist to haul him back up. 

“Yes,” Iain insisted. “Right now.”

“You do it.” Greg told him, limp in his arms.

“I— what? I can’t stitch up your arm!” 

“Iain!” 

“What!”

“Just get your fucking wand!”

With his arm magically stitched up but still limp in his lap, Greg looked up from the floor. Iain seemed panic-stricken, despite the better part of their crisis being over. 

“You’ve— you lost a lot of blood,” he murmured, running his hand through his hair. “A lot. You’ll need— a replenishing potion. Or a transfusion, but that’d be hard to explain…” 

“Do you have one?” Iain shook his head. “Well, bollocks.” 

“Greg…”

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to sit here. You’re gonna bring me a glass of water. And I’m gonna be fine.” He rested his head against the wooden cabinets behind him. “Everything’ll be just fine.” 

Iain stepped around him. He pulled a cup down from the shelf and filled it halfway before crouching down. “Drink slowly,” he insisted, holding the glass to Greg’s lips. The older detective complied, and looked Iain in his tired, bewildered eyes as he took small sips. 

“What?” Iain asked. 

“Nothing,” Greg answered.

‘Nothing? Not even going to tell me what happened?” 

Greg’s expression was stoically blank.

“Really? No explanation at all.”

“I don’t know.. how to tell you.” Greg’s voice was soft and deep.

“Well, it can’t be bloody worse than strutting in here, expecting terrorists.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Just fucking out with it, Greg.” 

Greg smiled slightly. It was weak — everything was weak. He couldn’t move his arm. He wasn’t inclined to move his legs. He wasn’t used to feeling like that, but he was alive, and that must have meant something. He hadn’t bled out. A wild animal hadn’t ripped his throat out. 

Just his veins.

“An animal,” he answered, with a slight laugh. “A werewolf, I think.”

Iain dropped back on his heels very abruptly. In any other circumstances — with any other person — he’d have laughed. He’d have rolled his eyes, and smirked, and dismissed the lunacy.

But Greg had a habit of honesty. Greg didn’t lie, and he didn’t tell tales when emotions were at stake like Iain’s were now.

Iain had every reason to trust him. “But… how?”

“Jones.” Iain’s eyes narrowed, but Greg pressed on. “No, I know. I know it sounds ludicrous, but I followed him down to the car park. He’s been odd all day. He turned right in front of my eyes.” 

“And he scratched you?” 

“He bit me, Iain,” Greg murmured. Iain sat down on the floor across from him, his expression grim. “He bit me.”

Iain didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. Who would, in that situation? Sure, he was a wizard. He’d graduated from one of the most prestigious institutions of magical learning in the world. 

But even Hogwarts wasn’t exactly werewolf friendly. He’d had a professor once — a nice fellow, if a bit shy. Actually, he’d had a massive crush on him for the longest time, but at the end of the year, someone had let slip that the poor man was a werewolf. 

He’d left after that. The Defence teachers always left. 

He tried to meet Greg’s eyes, but the older man wasn’t paying attention to him. He was staring at the floor with a hollow, sort of horror-struck expression. He looked like a man who had just been told he only had weeks — maybe days — to live.

Maybe it wasn’t just Hogwarts that was biased. 

“Greg,” he said softly.

The old detective blinked. 

“Greg, we don’t know…” He trailed off. They knew. Denying it wasn’t going to help anyone.

That brought a smile to his partner’s lips at least — but it was a brief respite.

They realised something almost simultaneously. 

“If Jones bit you…” Iain started.

Greg had gone from sweetly sad to frightened in a matter of seconds. He had to force himself to swallow, to clear his throat, before he could respond. “I can feel— … I can feel the moonlight on the back of my neck,” he told Iain.

Iain looked up quickly. The curtains in the kitchen were wide open, and the light of a bright, white moon splashed across the floor — right across Greg’s back. Neither of them had noticed at first because the kitchen lights all but washed it completely away. 

Greg closed his eyes.

“No…”

“Iain, get out of here.” 

Iain’s stomach clenched. “No, I can’t—”

“Seal the windows and doors and get out.” 

There was a harshness to Greg’s tone that Iain had never heard before. Never once, in the four years that he’d known him. He felt chastised — like a small boy who had strayed into a neighbour’s yard when he shouldn’t have — but that didn’t make it any easier to stand up. 

His mouth hung open, his expression brimming with fear and sadness and concern for the only man he genuinely loved. Even he had never — if he might never admit it — it still mattered. 

“I can’t,” he told Greg.

Greg Lestrade snarled. “Iain! Get out!” 

Iain was so shocked that he pushed himself backwards — away from Greg. Away from the obvious danger that was slowly coming into being right before his eyes. That stupid something in his chest was anchoring him to Greg, who had doubled over on the floor. 

But was it fear or logic that let him pull away? 

If it was fear, it relented as he stood at the threshold of the kitchen and the sitting room. Greg was shaking. On his hands and knees, he looked like he was heaving on to the tile. 

“You can’t stay here,” Iain interjected, never looking away.

“Iain.” Was he pleading now?

“No, Greg— you can’t. You cannot stay here, even if I barricade the windows. Think of the noise. Someone will come!” 

Greg cried out. Iain winced. The older detective tucked his head down against the floor, digging his hands into his grey hair briefly. He whined — whimpered, really — like he was trying to say something, but Iain could hardly hear him.

He was transfixed.

Greg started to writhe. He flexed his feet. He twisted from side to side, but more than that — he started to scratch at the back of his neck. He scraped at it, like a dog with fleas finding that one, obnoxious itch. He left bright red marks across his skin, and Iain noticed for the first time that Greg’s hands had changed.

His fingers ended in sharp claws. 

“Greg!” He begged. He’d have gotten on his knees and pleaded if he thought it would make any difference, but he knew it wouldn’t. They both knew it. 

Greg took a deep breath. 

“For FUCK’S SAKE, IAIN.” Iain took a startled step back again. “ARE YOU A FUCKING WIZARD, OR AREN’T YOU? PUT—” There was pain in Greg’s expression, in his tone, in his body language. Iain could feel it in his chest. “PUT A SODDING SPELL ON THE DOOR, AND GET. OUT.” 

Iain clenched his jaw.

And then he fled.


	8. Run

He ran. He slammed the door shut. He magically sealed it. He enchanted it, and begged every fibre of the universe to please, let it work. 

And then he ran. 

He didn’t even pay attention to where. 

It might have been five minutes or it might have been forty-five, but he didn’t stop until he’d completely gotten lost, and even then the seriousness of what he was running from kept nipping at his heels.

He had to tell someone.

He couldn’t tell anyone. 

He needed Greg. He had to go back.

He couldn’t go back.

He had to go somewhere.

But he had nowhere to go.

That realisation hit him so hard that he tripped over his own feet, stumbled, and sprawled out across the side-walk. A couple across the street stared at him, huddled a little closer together, and hurried on past. It was dark, and cold, and it wasn’t often a good idea to speak to strangers that looked like they might be on drugs.

Or worse.

Iain pushed himself up. He’d scraped the skin off the palms of his hands, but he hadn’t broken his wand. That was something, at least. Fuck, though! He’d been running through the bloody streets of London with his wand in his hand! He was lucky the Ministry hadn’t hunted him down! Any moment, an Auror or a Hit Wizard might show up beside him and cart him off to Azkaban. 

Any minute now they might do the same thing to Greg.

If they hadn’t already.

He shoved himself up and turned in the direction he thought was home. 

The Ministry couldn’t arrest anyone for being a werewolf. Or at least— that seemed right. The laws had improved since he was a kid. It wasn’t like having the plague any more.

It wasn’t good.

But it wasn’t the end of the world.

A small beacon of hope ignited in his chest. It burned — it flashed and it burned, and it devoured the dark fear that had settled in the hole left by whatever force had kept him in that flat for so long. 

He swallowed. He was breathing hard, but he was breathing.

He wanted to breathe.

The flame in his heart grew hotter. 

There was an upside to living in a city as big as London. He could find a cab at any time of the day or night, and even if he didn’t have fare — which he didn’t — he could always get one of them to explain where he was.

Actually, he probably could have just called the bloody police. He might even know whoever was on the beat. But then he’d have to explain — or at least try to explain how he’d come to be so lost at night. And without his phone, without any identification? 

God save the London cabbies. 

But as the an drove off — and faster than he should have, on such a small street — Iain turned on his heel again.

He knew where he was, but that didn’t help. He might have been able to get home, but what could he do? He couldn’t go inside. 

His knee hit the end of a bench and he swore as he doubled over. 

He sat.

He sat down, with his head in his bleeding hands and his mind racing and his heart pounding and his little, hopeful flame flickering dangerously deep inside his chest.

Did he actually have anywhere to go?

He thought of Søren. As if he knew where the Dane actually lived. That information wasn’t even in the Met’s database.

He thought of Sally. How the hell was he going to tell Sally what had just happened? Greg was her best mate. She was a muggle, but she knew about him— enough about him anyway. But did she know about werewolves? About what this meant? She would go ballistic no matter what, and Iain couldn’t handle that right now.

The fire felt colder somehow.

He thought of Dan, but he was on the other side of the bloody Thames. Was there anyone?

A single thought occurred to him.

Iain sat upright. He slapped himself hard in the face.

He was a wizard. He was a shit wizard, apparently — too forgetful of magic to be useful, but he could fucking apparate if he had to. Dan was a wizard — he might not condone Iain apparating into his sitting room, but he wouldn’t mind him coming over. He’d understand. He knew about werewolves. He knew what being a werewolf meant. He was clever. He was in touch with the magical side of their lifestyle — more than Iain and Greg had ever been. 

Iain stood up, and vanished.

\---

There were half a dozen reasons why anyone would start slamming on his door at night, Dan reasoned. The most common was work — he didn’t have to be on duty for a detective to think he needed to come to the office immediately.

Legally, he didn’t — but that wasn’t really how it worked at the Yard.

And therefore, Dan wasn’t in the least bit surprised to see Iain standing there when he pulled the door open. 

He was surprised to see him without a coat. And as pale as a ghost.

And covered in blood. 

Unlike Sally, Dan didn’t say anything. Sally would have started screaming — demanding to know what the hell had happened, why he’d shown up in what could qualify as the middle of the night in such a state. She wouldn’t have stopped until Iain started to answer, but he stayed quiet. He stared, mouth open slightly, and waited for Iain to explain. 

“Can I come in?” Iain asked desperately. 

Dan silently stepped out of his way. 

Iain stumbled into the hall. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Dan glanced out his front door, biting his lip slightly. There was no one out there — at least, no one he could see. He shut it, and locked it, before he turned back to Iain. 

“I don’t know what to do,” the young detective repeated.

Dan gently pushed him down onto a bench by the door. “What happened?” He asked calmly, fixating on Iain’s bloody hands. 

Iain shook his head. “Fell. Tripped and landed on my hands, it’s not that—” 

A voice in the next room interrupted him. “Love, who is it?”

“Iain,” Dan answered. “Jen, get a bowl of hot water and a dark towel.” 

“What?” Iain heard scraping and footsteps — someone pushing a piece of furniture back and standing up. He shook his head, but within seconds Jenna appeared in the hall. 

Her mouth fell open.

Iain closed his eyes. 

“What happened?”

“Jen, please. Hot water. Towel.” 

His wife reluctantly peeled away from them in search of the items he requested. She was a prosecutor — she wanted to know what had happened, preferably in as much detail as possible. It was inevitable. 

Dan crouched down in front of Iain, look up at him with sympathy. “What happened?”

Iain licked his lips. Now that he had to say it out loud, his mouth felt drier than the Sahara. And he would know — he’d been there. His nostrils flared as he struggled to find the words.

Dan waited patiently. 

“Greg… Greg was bitten.”

And then it all came flooding out.

“Mike— Mike Jones is a fucking werewolf. He and Greg were down in the car park, and tonight’s the full moon. He changed, he bit Greg.” Jenna returned with a deep bowl of water and a towel. She knelt beside her husband and soothing mopped at Iain’s hands without asking. Iain winced, but continued talking. “Greg was washing his arm in the sink, because he bit him. He—” Iain stopped for breath. 

After a moment, he added: “And I ran.” 

Dan looked him in the eye and asked very seriously: “Iain. Where is Greg right now?” 

“Locked in our flat.”

“You’re sure?”

Iain nodded. “I didn’t— I didn’t seal the windows, just the front door. Put a silencing charm on it,” he added with a half-smile.

Dan stood up and opened the drawer of a small table just behind them. He pulled out his wand and tucked it into the pocket of his pyjama bottoms. Jenna immediately protested. 

“Don’t you dare— you can’t go over there!” 

He shook his head. “I have to. If Greg gets out of that apartment…” He trailed off. 

They all knew what might happen. None of them wanted to think about it. 

“Daniel,” she said, pleading.

Iain looked down at the floor. That sound was too familiar. 

“Get him cleaned up — I think the blood on his face is just from his hands. He’ll be all right, he’s just in shock. Get him some tea, maybe. Iain?”

Iain glanced up. 

“He’ll be all right.” 

Iain forced himself to nod. Was it his imagination, or did that little flame jump?


	9. Inside

It hadn’t been his intention to run out into the cold on a dark night. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t even thought about it as he'd run out the door. 

He’d somehow managed to pull on shoes, and to tug on a coat over his t-shirt. But that was a very bare minimum, he’d realised, as he stepped into the windswept little alley between Greg’s building and the next one over. He couldn't go into the flat to check on Lestrade -- but luckily, he was clever. There were other options. 

From his recollection, he knew that there was a fire escape just outside the sitting room window, but he wasn’t familiar enough with the area to know which one it was. He looked up -- counting the floors, and looking for lights to hazard a guess. 

The colder he got, the more he wanted to abandon the whole silly cause and go home. But he knew he had to check — he couldn’t go inside, but he had to at least find the bloody window and have a look. Maybe he would see Greg, and maybe he wouldn’t. 

Maybe he would see a great, big, bloody werewolf, he corrected. 

Dan pulled down the right ladder and ascended, swearing quietly at the cold, and the thinness of his pyjama bottoms. 

He found it difficult to convince himself to approach. His curiosity begged — he needed to know. But he was no Gryffindor. Courage was not in his list of positive attributes. 

He stared at the window from the flight below, almost willing his hand to freeze to the metal railing. At least then he’d have an excuse not to go up. 

But something moved just over his head. 

He slowly looked up. 

Two bright, disembodied eyes stared down at him.

If he hadn’t been clutching the railing, he’d have fallen backwards down the steps and likely died. If Greg was in the flat, he’d have to have been unconscious not to hear the sound of Dan’s heart hammering against the inside of his rib cage. He panted as adrenaline flooded his system, and swore more loudly than he ever had in his life.

“Holmes!” He hissed angrily.

Overhead, and in the guise of a cat, Sherlock flicked his long black tail again. 

“I could—” Dan stopped and forced himself to breathe through his nose. He could feel his blood pounding through his veins. His eye might have been twitching. If ever there was a time when he could conceivably see himself committing murder, it was right then. 

Sherlock looked away and all but vanished. He was solid black in his cat form — only his eyes stood out in the darkness. It was their odd colouring, blue and green with flecks of brown — eyes that no proper cat should have, that gave him away. 

Dan bit back a second string of swear words, exchanging them for an irate grunt. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, leapt down on to the window ledge.

“Anderson,” he greeted. 

“Oh, don’t do that,” Dan moaned, making a face. “Talking animals are creepy.” 

Sherlock tucked his paws beneath him as he settled against the window.

“Which is just your style. Of course.” 

“Lestrade is a werewolf,” Sherlock said, utterly emotionless.

“I’d heard. Can you see him?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s he doing?” 

“Eating.” 

“Eating what?” 

“Dimmock’s shoes.”

Dan blinked. Maybe it was his earlier scare, maybe it just was — but he wasn’t even slightly surprised. “I assume you sealed the window.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock answered, still watching Lestrade.

Dan tried to peer into the room from where he was standing. “Can I come closer?” He asked. “Would he notice me?” 

“A blind corpse would notice you, Anderson.” 

He had to remind himself that he was here for Greg, and for Iain — but that didn’t stop his nose from flaring in annoyance. “Very funny,” he muttered, slinking closer.

He looked past Sherlock into the sitting room. 

Sherlock had exaggerated. A blind corpse probably wouldn’t have noticed him. But it wouldn’t have failed to see the destruction inside.

The couch — Greg’s beloved couch that he repeatedly refused to toss out despite both Sally and Iain begging, bribing, and attempting to blackmail him — was in ribbons. The stuffing had been scattered in heaps across the floor. The back might have been snapped in half. The coffee table was missing a leg, and had deep gouges across the top. Everything that had been on top of it — case files and mugs and what might have been Iain’s mobile — was now bits of dust and pulp. 

“Merlin…” Dan muttered.

His eyes flew to the bookcases that lined the far wall. Greg’s record collection — easily his most prized possession, apart fro his couch — seemed untouched.

“Is he… aware?” he asked.

“He… seems to have retained familiarity with certain items.”

Sherlock’s phrasing surprised Dan more than the statement itself. In any other circumstance, the jerk wouldn’t have hesitated to school Dan — to provide not only the most accurate answer to his question, but to inform him why he was an idiot for not knowing. 

But Sherlock paused. And Sherlock said ‘seems’. And those were not things Sherlock did, except — logically speaking — when he was as uninformed as everyone else. 

Dan scanned the room. “Where is he?” 

“In the kitchen.” 

He was indeed.

Or at least, half of him was. The important, fanged, significantly more dangerous half was out of sight behind the wall. The fluffy, grey rear end was half hidden behind a large piece of the couch, but sprawled out quite comfortably, it seemed.

“That’s…” 

“He took a leather shoe in there, sat down, and then… collapsed.”

Dan did his best not to smile. Collapsed was the best word for it. Rather like a dog, Greg laid down on his stomach, with his back legs stretched out in either direction, and his tail… thumping quite merrily against the floor.

“It’s like he doesn’t know he’s supposed to be a psychotic killer.” 

“Is he? The only reference material I’ve encountered is lore. Either he is an anomaly, or the legend of the werewolf is falsified to scare ordinary people.” 

“I thought you’d know a dozen of them, with your connections.” 

“It’s a homeless network. Not a Bestiary.” 

Dan glanced away from the wolf to the cat. “Still…”

“He makes a point to avoid the vinyl. He did urinate on the stack on the floor, but that’s territorial canid behaviour. His preoccupation with items that belong to Dimmock, however…” 

“What does he do with them?”

“He eats them.” 

Dan bit his lower lip to keep from smiling. “Perhaps he’s… drawn in by the smell?” 

“But why does he eat them?” 

Dan covered his mouth with his hand. “He’ll regret that tomorrow,” he mumbled. 

“Yes, thank you for that,” Sherlock answered scornfully. “He’ll regret a lot of things tomorrow.” 

“But he seems to be fine,” Dan mentioned, trying to get a better angle. “He hasn’t damaged anything that can’t be replaced. Well, apart from those files. It’s interesting that he’s grey…” 

“It’s either due to age, or his hair colour — as with the Animagus.” 

“Now who’s stating the obvious.” 

Sherlock shifted and flicked his tail sulkily. 

“Did he hurt himself much?” 

“No.” 

“I didn’t think so. There’s hardly any blood on the floor.” 

He was relieved. He’d come expecting the worst, but what he saw made him believe that they might manage Greg’s condition.

And until that moment, he hadn’t even stopped to wonder if they should. The answer had been so obvious, his mind hadn’t questioned it. 

Greg was their anchor. His, Iain’s, Sally’s — a lot of people at the Yard relied on him as much as his own family. He was reliable. He was loyal. He was trustworthy. 

Dan couldn’t stop himself — he grinned.

“Your transformations,” he asked. “Do you find the shape of a cat easier to maintain?” 

Sherlock’s head turned. Without eyebrows, he couldn’t perform some of the ore complex facial expressions — but there was a hint of annoyed confusion and curiosity in the way his head tilted slightly to the side.

“The magic of the Animagus relies on the nature of the person who performs it. Their personality, and traits. It’s a reflection of their inner self.” 

Sherlock stayed silent. 

“I know you use a different spell. You can transform into other things, but you prefer being a cat.” 

Sherlock’s ears twitched.

“What if… the reason he’s so calm, is because— well, he’s rather dog-like in person.” 

“The werewolf isn’t a dog.” 

“No, but Greg… rather is. And the werewolf is subject to an inner demon of sorts that only reflects the nature of a wolf. What if Greg’s nature was so inherently canid already that the disease fed on that, as the magic of an Animagus would.” 

“He’s tame because he’s dog-like as a person.” 

“Exactly.” 

They both turned back to the window, leaning in closer to stare at Greg’s wagging tail.

“Brilliant,” they said simultaneously.


	10. Aftermath

Morning dawned on Jenna, Dan, and Iain sharing a pot of tea in the Andersons' kitchen. They'd noticed it getting progressively lighter outside, but with no real knowledge of werewolves, they couldn't be sure when Greg would change back -- if he would at all.

Jenna felt he might prefer his new, canid shape a little too much, given what Dan had told them. 

Iain stoically refused to think about it until he could physically see the sun. 

The three of them scratched together a light breakfast -- mostly just toast with jam -- before they even considered discussing what to do. Iain nibbled on the end of a scone. He couldn't have kept anything else down. 

He was terrified, yes -- but he was grateful, too. Grateful that in a time of very great need, he not only had two friends who provided him reassurance and help, but food and shelter as well. And with the night passing, the dark horror of the day before hardly seemed real. 

It was just a nightmare that had left his stomach topsy-turvy and tied in a knot.

Jenna's mobile rang in the family room just as they were washing up. She ran to fetch it while Iain and Dan cleared the plates. They had just exchanged resolute nods when she called out to them. 

"It's Sherlock," she said. "Greg has changed back." 

Iain dropped his dish towel and slid into hallway to meet her. 

"He seems to be fine, but Sherlock won't go in. He thinks his--... his scent might distress Greg. He says you should come over immediately." 

Iain nodded, and disapparated on the spot. 

It was very rude to apparate inside someone's home. Many magical buildings actually had wards and protection spells in place to prevent just such a thing from happening, but seeing as they lived in a muggle tenement -- and since it was technically his home, Iain threw caution to the wind.

He apparated just inside the door of their flat. 

And if he hadn't been so confident in his apparation skills, he would have sworn he was in the wrong home. 

The destruction was astounding. 

A muffled meow echoed across the wasteland that was the sitting room. Iain looked up. Sherlock, still in the guise of a thin, black cat, stared at him through the glass. 

"Thank you," Iain told him. Sherlock had stayed there the entire night to keep an eye on Greg. It had been the safest solution. If Greg got violent, or somehow escaped, Sherlock was the only one who could follow him, or run to safety. 

Sherlock flicked his tail once in recognition before leaping down, off the windowsill, and vanishing from sight. 

Iain took a deep breath. 

"Greg?" 

There was no answer, but in fairness, he hadn't expected one. If he'd been up half the night breaking every single piece of furniture they owned, he'd probably have passed out somewhere, as well. 

The question was -- where?

He glanced into the kitchen, but it was empty as well. 

Empty of people, rather. Like the sitting room, it was littered with debris. Debris that, as he looked closer, he realised seemed to be mostly his belongings. He winced. 

He set the only four-legged chair they had left upright before crossing the flat and peering into the bedroom. 

Still no sign of Greg. 

It was an incredibly small home -- there was only one other room he could have been in. Iain navigated the ruins of a large, wooden dresser and walked into the bathroom. 

And there he was. 

The first thing that Iain noticed was that Greg was utterly naked. The second -- that he didn't seem to be injured. And third -- that he'd built something of a nest out of clothes in the bathtub. 

Out of Iain's clothes, if he wasn't mistaken. 

Iain grabbed a large, fluffy towel and approached the bathtub slowly. 

"Greg," he murmured. "Greg, wake up." 

The older detective hardly twitched. It was surprising -- typically Greg was a light sleeper. 

Iain perched on the edge of the tub, towel in his lap, and reached out. "Love..." He shook Greg's shoulder gently. 

Greg groaned. 

Despite being fully aware that Greg had been alive and figuratively kicking before he made any sound, Iain sighed with relief.

The grey-haired detective squinted up at him, slowly lifting his arm out of the nest of clothes to shield his eyes against the morning light. “What’s wrong?” he croaked. The gravelly tremor in his voice was startling, and he coughed quietly, trying to clear it.

Iain smiled. “Don’t bother,” he murmured. “I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

Greg sat up quickly. His gaze jumped from the bathtub, to the smashed bin by the toilet, to the cuts and deep gouges on the cabinet doors. It was lucky he couldn’t see the smattering of scratches across his own shoulders and chest just yet. But the movement was reminiscent of Sherlock, the way he noticed everything in leaps. Iain felt like he could hear the cogs turning in Greg’s head.

But the older DI’s confusion left questions hanging in the air.

“Greg, do you remember what happened last night?” Iain asked slowly. He draped the towel across Greg’s lap, wondering if he should have had Sherlock stay, if only for a few moments.

He begrudged the amateur detective’s gift as much as anyone in Scotland Yard -- well, not begrudged. More like jealously respected the younger man’s abilities. And he couldn’t deny that Sherlock knew the supernatural world better than any of them. Hell -- he and Greg made a point of living like muggles as much as possible.

This... new condition was as foreign to him as magic was to muggleborns on their first day of school.

Greg was staring listlessly at the claw marks on the cabinet. One door hung at an angle, and it was obvious that something had been chewing on the corner.

“Greg?”

Greg shook his head. “No, I--”

He remembered being bitten. He remembered fleeing the car park as fast as he could, and scrambling into his car. He remembered hazy actions and little snippets of dialogue, but nothing came clearly. Or rather, nothing he ought to have remembered came to him clearly.

He remembered the salty tang of blood dripping into his lap as though it was happening at that very moment.

He remembered a dark, warm feeling pulsing up the length of his arm and moving into his chest.

He remembered the taste of wood, and different kinds of fabrics, and rubber, and what had bloody better not have been vinyl. Saliva washed over his tongue and he swallowed it back, along with all those memories as they resurfaced.

“I don’t remember much of anything,” he said hoarsely. It was only a partial lie.

He looked up at Iain. The younger man’s eyes were concerned, and frightened, but brave. If it had been a better moment, Greg would have smiled.

“I’m fine,” he told Iain, trying to sound as sincere as possible.

Iain didn’t reply right away, and Greg’s stomach rolled.

“What happened?” He asked, lifting his arm to run his hand through his hair. Iain grabbed him by the wrist, drawing Greg’s attention to the shiny, white scar on his forearm. “Well, I remember that,” he muttered. “How’s it healed already?”

“Magic,” Iain answered sardonically. “God only knows what else there is...”

“Doubt God’s got much to do with this.”

Iain licked his thumb and reached out, rubbing one of the scratches on Greg’s chest experimentally. As he’d expected, the blood washed away, showing the slightly ragged scar underneath. Greg followed the movement and swore as he realised just how much of a mess he was.

“Christ, I’m disgusting.”

“You just need a bath,” Iain told him. “A real one.”

“Yeah, are these your clothes?” Greg asked, pulling a pair of pants from under his knee.

“Yes,” Iain answered, tugging them out of his grip. “They’re all mine, I think.”

“I passed out in a tub of your dirty--”

“They’re not dirty!” Iain interrupted, standing up. “And you brought them there, by the way. Sherlock says you gathered them up, and-- Just look! You’ve built a bloody nest or something.”

Greg looked down, and silently admitted that ‘nest’ was probably the best word for it. And ‘bloody’ wasn’t exactly far from the truth. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’ll get them in the wash...”

Iain rolled his eyes. “No, Greg. Shut up, it’s not important.” Greg looked up yet again, and met Iain’s gaze head on.

Iain sucked in a breath and reached out to brace himself against the door-frame.

Maybe it was residual from the night before, or maybe it was just Greg being Greg, but his brown eyes seemed a thousand times more... pathetically adorable than usual. Maybe Iain felt guilty about abandoning him, or maybe Greg felt awful about the mess, but whatever the cause -- he had the widest, saddest pair of puppy dog eyes Iain had ever seen.

Was that his heart melting in his chest?

“Here,” he said quickly, crouching by the tub to scoop as many of his clothes out as he could reach. Greg started to stand up, but Iain stopped him by putting a hand on Greg’s chest. “No, don’t--” But the fierce heat of Greg’s skin caught him off-guard and he faltered, staring. He hadn’t noticed it before when they touched briefly, but with his hand pressed flat to the area over Greg’s heart, it was impossible to miss. “You’re on fire,” he murmured.

Greg’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t feel it.”

“Does my hand feel cold?”

Greg shrugged. “A bit, but not out of the ordinary.”

They exchanged grimaces. The situation was anything but ordinary.

“You shower,” Iain told him. “I’ll... see if I can fix the sofa.”

Greg went from slumped to straight-backed in an instant. He even seemed paler, and Iain -- fully aware of how much Greg loved that stupid, piece of shit couch -- didn’t doubt it. “What happened to my sofa?” The older man looked like he might crawl out of his skin, never mind the tub.

“It’s fine--” Iain answered immediately, regretting even mentioning it. “Just a little scratched. No one else would even know, considering.” It was rubbish when he moved in, and it was... well, in pieces now -- and still rubbish. “I’ll patch it up with magic--” Greg started to protest, but Iain put a hand over his mouth. “Shower. It’s fine. I promise.”

After a moment, Greg nodded reluctantly. “Be out in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Iain cautioned, standing up again. “You might be a little sore after...” After tearing their apartment to shreds?

“I feel fine. Honestly, there’s a weird taste in my mouth... bit like old socks.” He scraped at his tongue with the towel. “But I feel fit.”

“Best not to push it,” Iain told him, taking a step back into the bedroom. “Just take it easy.”

As he turned around, retreating into the sitting room, he silently admitted to himself that Greg feeling perfectly fit after an excruciating physical transformation was more frightening than reassuring.


	11. Intervention

The days that followed the full moon were startlingly normal. Iain bought a new mobile, and Greg laboriously washed and mended every corner of their little apartment. Some things would just have to be replaced. Some they could do without. Some they just chose not to talk about, because they realised that they’d rather just not know what had happened to them. 

They brought up the actual transformation as infrequently as possible. 

They went to work -- they told Sally, who panicked and yelled and very nearly got them all thrown into an asylum. She was furious about not being informed from the very beginning. She was Greg’s best friend, she shouted -- somebody could have at least phoned her! Luckily for Dan, he could hide in his lab for the better part of the week and a half that Sally spent coldly ignoring him as punishment. 

Greg had gone back to being Greg -- no super senses, no scratch marks on his chest. The scar from Mike’s bite was still there, and Mike, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found. Sally had rung his parents early on, who’d told her that first of all, she should stop toying with their poor boy’s heart, and secondly, he was on holiday in Majorca. 

Why he’d run off to Majorca without so much as a note was anyone’s guess, but the magically-aware members of Lestrade’s floor made their own assumptions. They figured that -- despite their concern for the kid’s well-being -- they had their own problems to deal with. If Mike showed up any point, they’d gladly drag him into an alleyway and question him until they fully understood what had happened. But until he did, Iain and Greg were content to forget about everything..

It was Sally who forced them to sit down and come to terms with what had happened. 

She underhandedly invited them over for supper one evening, and they -- without really questioning it -- accepted. It wasn’t a suspicious event -- they had Sally over at their place all the time. But they rarely invited Sherlock, Anderson, and Iain’s sergeant, Søren Friis, to join them. Sally had miraculously managed to contain them in one room without anyone committing murder, and all four conspirators were upstairs and waiting impatiently when Iain and Greg arrived. 

The newcomers got to the top of the stairs before they even realised they’d been set up. Greg immediately turned around, but Sally barred the way back down the stairs. 

“Stop,” she insisted. “We have to talk about this.”

“We don’t have to talk about anything,” Greg snapped. “We're going home.”

Iain stopped in the middle of Sally’s sitting room, tilting his head to the side slightly as he looked at Søren. The Danish sergeant shrugged and shook his head. 

“Greg, please. This is important.”

“Yeah, and it’s important to me and me alone,” the grey-haired DI told her testily. 

“And me,” Iain added.

“And him,” Greg conceded.

Sally looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading. It was a rare trick -- puppy eyes didn’t really work for people who were as vicious as hungry tigers on a good day. But the effort was there. “Greg,” she repeated quietly. 

Greg glared for a moment, and then sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Fine.” He turned and dragged his feet back up the top two steps and into the sitting room to stand beside Iain. Sherlock and Søren didn’t acknowledge him, but Dan greeted him with a sardonic half-smile. He was clearly unhappy about being trapped in a room with Sherlock Holmes. Greg didn’t blame him. He was willing to bet that the only reason Dan had stayed was for penance -- to make up for not phoning Sally on the night of the transformation. 

“Is there even any food?” Greg asked, sounding slightly bitter. Sally waltzed into her kitchen and came back with a thick, surprisingly well-cooked steak and veg on a plate. 

“You can sit wherever you like,” she told him, handing it over. 

“Anywhere that isn’t already occupied,” Greg muttered, looking around. Eventually he fixed his glare on Sherlock, who had taken up residence in a cosy recliner. Sherlock didn’t look away from his Blackberry. Greg didn’t look away from Sherlock. Everyone else watched nervously. 

After a minute and a half of Sherlock’s jaw clenching harder and harder, the young detective uncurled and stood up. Greg, suddenly cheerful now that a chair was available, calmly took his seat. 

Sally, Iain, Dan, and Søren watched the exchange in amazement. 

“Do you think that’s part of the cat-dog, thing?” Sally whispered to Iain. 

“What cat-dog thing?” Greg and Sherlock asked simultaneously. 

Sally rolled her eyes and Iain pursed his lips. 

“All right,” Sally said, folding her hands in front of her. “You all know why you’re here.”

“Wait, don’t I get anything to eat?” Iain interrupted. 

And for a brief moment, Iain was grateful that Sally was the only person in the room without any magical ability whatsoever. The glare she gave him could have turned him into a dungbeetle. He sat down on the floor in front of Søren and drew his knees up to his chest. 

“Now,” Sally continued. “How are we going to deal with Greg’s p-- change.”

Greg stopped eating and stared at her. Dan smirked and Iain quickly hid his mouth behind his hand.

“We have to have a plan,” Sally said quickly, trying to push past the slip before Greg could get up and walk out again. “The full moon is in one week and five days, and we have to prepare.”

No one said anything. 

Sally huffed and folded her arms across her chest. “Fine! Let a raving werewolf loose on the streets of London. I’m sure that will go over so well. You’ll be bloody lucky that you’re invincible to everything but silver bullets.”

Iain looked up at her. “Is that actually true?”

“No,” Sherlock answered immediately. He had taken up a position in the corner, and stowed his mobile in his coat pocket. Everyone watched him, expecting him to continue -- but he didn’t. 

Dan sighed quietly and tried to explain. He’d been doing research ever since the day of Lestrade’s transformation, and had pulled together a few facts that he thought might be useful in the future. What had surprised him most was how little the magical community in Britain actually knew about werewolves. In the past, it seemed that wizards and witches were less interested in the actual study, and more in the social ramifications of lycanthrophy. Werewolves were still treated with disdain, he knew, but at least Britain had done away with the communes nearly a decade ago. 

“You won’t be invincible,” he answered. “But the legend is rooted in a biological fact. When you transform, your biology rewrites itself. Every process is in overdrive. The cells are reproducing about fifty times as fast as they would normally, which makes you heal very quickly.”

Greg didn’t look up from his plate, but Iain nodded. “Right, yeah. We noticed that after... every scratch had healed up by morning. They’re all gone, except for the one from the bite.”

“It’s probably the toxin,” Dan told him. 

“Toxin?” Everyone looked over at Greg. Given his obvious resentment of the meeting, they were surprised to hear him talk. 

Dan glanced at Iain. “In the saliva,” he explained. “It’s how the condition is transmitted from one person to another. It affects the cells differently than a scratch or a cut would.” Søren frowned. 

“Cheers,” Greg replied sourly, stuffing a large piece of broccoli in his mouth. 

Sally dragged a chair from her kitchen table over to the couch where Dan and Søren were sitting. “So, what? Any scrape he gets will heal up, but if he bites himself, those scars will be permanent?”

“Essentially.” 

Sally looked at Greg. “Don’t bite yourself,” she instructed. Greg all but dropped his fork. “What else?” she asked, before he could make a comeback. 

“What do you mean?”

“What if he bit one of us? We’d get it too, right?”

Dan nodded, but Greg interjected: “But it doesn’t matter, because I won’t bloody bite any of you.”

“You can’t know that,” Sally told him. 

“I can.” Greg set the empty plate on the arm of the recliner. “Because none of you will be anywhere near me if it happens. None of you.” He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

“Where will you go?” Iain asked. 

Greg slowly looked from Sherlock to Iain -- and softened considerably as a result. The frustration and annoyance slipped away from his expression, leaving a weary sort of confusion. He didn’t know. He had no idea what he was going to do, because he’d been blindly avoiding the subject ever since it had happened. His best friend had been forced to stage a sodding intervention just to get him to face it. He didn’t answer. 

Sherlock spoke up when it became obvious that Greg wouldn’t. “I arranged a room at St. Bart’s.” All eyes turned to him again. “It’s secure -- empty. And it’s underground, so it’s unlikely anyone will hear you.”

Greg stared blankly at Iain. “That sounds a bit extreme,” Iain said quietly. 

“It’s... necessary,” Dan answered. 

“Fitting for a demon,” Søren added bluntly. 

For all of thirty seconds, Sally’s sitting room as silent as the grave... 

And then Sherlock and Dan quickly destroyed the tension by laughing. Søren’s expression remained stoic -- not that it ever changed. The suggestion that lycanthropy might be caused by demonic possession, however, was more than enough to make both magically-inclined sceptics smile. 

Sally, Iain, and Greg were not so easily amused. If anything, Greg looked a bit green. 

“Obviously that’s ridiculous,” Dan reassured them. “Demons aren’t real.”

“Neither are magicians,” Søren answered calmly. 

Dan’s smile slipped right off his face. 

“What do you mean by ‘demon’?” Greg asked the Danish detective. 

Søren looked him in the eye. “A werewolf is a curse. The afflicted man has offended God or the saints, and has received divine punishment.” Iain covered his face with his hand. 

Dan looked from Greg to Søren to Greg again. “Is he serious?” Dan and Sally weren't familiar with the Dane's religious background.

“Greg...” Sally added quietly. 

“So, what?” Greg asked Søren. “What, you could cure it with an exorcism or something?” He tried to sound sarcastic, but everyone could hear the whisper of doubt. 

“There’s no cure,” Sherlock interjected. 

Søren shook his head. “In the eyes of the Church--” Dan opened his mouth to protest, but Greg shut him up with a glare. “--the cursed man has been dismissed from the light of God.”

“Excommunicated.”

“Yes. There is no absolution.”

“Are there many werewolves at the Vatican?” Sally asked blithely. 

“Bloody terrific,” Greg muttered, sinking back into the recliner. “Cursed and locked in a dark hole for the rest of my life.”

“You are not cursed,” Iain told him firmly. 

“And you’re not possessed,” Dan added. “You can’t cure lycanthropy, but there are treatments now.”

“Yeah?” 

“Aconite,” the forensic scientist told him, elaborating. “It’s a plant, it... sedates you, essentially. It makes you harmless. You’re fully conscious -- completely in control of your actions. The... mania that comes with the change doesn’t surface.”

“I don’t suppose they’ll sell it at the chemist’s.”

“No,"Dan admitted. "And the potion itself is complicated.”

Sherlock yawned. “I’ve got some brewing at home.” Dan’s jaw tightened. “But it won’t be ready in two weeks.”

Greg closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So I’ll be a rabid animal yet again.”

“I doubt you’ll be rabid.” 

Greg peeked through his fingers. “What?”

“It’s not in your nature.”

“What?” Greg repeated. Sally tilted her head slightly, interested against her will in what Sherlock had to say. Dan and Iain side-eyed each other. 

“Did they not tell you?” Sherlock asked. There was a devious cheerfulness to him now. 

“Sherlock,” Greg growled.

“It’s not in you to be violent, like other werewolves,” Sherlock explained. 

“I destroyed my own house.”

“But you didn’t.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed. 

“You destroyed furniture, but you consciously left certain items alone. You avoided your record collection. You deliberately collected items that belonged to Dimmock, and carried them to the bathroom.” Sally laughed out loud. Greg’s nostrils flared. Iain hid behind his hand again. “You broke things while you were transforming, but you never intentionally destroyed them. And you stopped, incidentally.”

“You were perfectly calm after a while,” Dan added.

Greg blinked. He didn’t remember that. He remembered splinters, and anger, and pain -- the taste of blood, and drool, and furniture polish. He didn’t remember being anything even remotely close to calm.

“They have a theory,” Iain told him, trying to find a safe way to explain what Dan had recounted to him that night. “That you’re too... stable to be affected mentally.”

“I don’t remember being stable.”

“Well, no,” Dan amended. “Not initially. The condition can’t be stopped, and the transformation is very painful.”

“Yeah, I know that, thanks.”

“I’m saying that’s what you remember from the experience,” Dan continued. “You were in a... canine state of mind when you were calm, whereas you were still slightly human at the height of your destruction.”

Greg licked the corner of his mouth, eyeing him doubtfully for a moment. “But I’m still dangerous.”

“You’re contagious,” Iain corrected. “But you’re not violent.”

“And this potion, will it make me safe?”

Sherlock extracted his mobile from his coat pocket. “You’ll still be contagious, but you’ll be in control of yourself. You’ll be mentally human, in the body of a wolf.”

“Almost sounds like fun,” Sally commented. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Rapid bone growth, extensive organ failure as DNA literally rewrites itself. Yes, Donovan, it’s practically a party.” Sally glared over her shoulder. 

“Sherlock,” Greg warned. 

The consulting detective had clearly heard all he needed. He stretched and straightened up, and spoke without looking away from his mobile again. “Ring me the day of the full moon. It’s Saturday. I’ll fix the room, and meet you there.”

“Meet me?” Greg asked. 

“I’ll be observing you during your transformation.”

“You’ll what?”

“A full grown werewolf in a closed room?” Sherlock brushed past Sally and walked to the stairs. “Nowhere to go, nothing to bite? Now that really is a party.”

“Sherlock!” 

But Sherlock was done. He bounded down the stairs and out the front door without so much as a backwards glance. 

Greg put his head in his hands. 

It was too much -- too much information over too short a time. He should have faced the reality two weeks ago, but he hadn’t. He’d been unable to even process it until very recently, and now they all expected him to understand exactly what it meant to be a werewolf -- to accept this life-changing condition. 

Iain scrambled up from the floor and stood beside him, putting one hand on Greg’s back as a gesture of fond reassurance. 

“We’re here for you, Greg,” Sally told him quietly. 

Every bone in his body ached. He wanted to drop everything and run -- to leave the whole sodding and complicated mess behind and escape. 

But despite that -- despite everything -- he still believed her. 

He still had them.


End file.
